


Straight Up

by girlintheglen



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-22
Updated: 2013-07-22
Packaged: 2017-12-20 23:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/893037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlintheglen/pseuds/girlintheglen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A deadly encounter leaves Napoleon with questions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straight Up

 

Napoleon Solo grimaced at the pain in his side, straightened up as best he could in spite of it.  The jacket he wore should cover the blood, or at least he hoped so.

A man lay dead from a single bullet.  Napoleon didn’t enjoy killing, but when it came down to a choice between his life and the man making the threat… That wasn’t a choice.  It was simply a response.

Looking around at the shabby room made Napoleon shiver.  The meeting should have been simple, the other man should not have changed sides; it had been a fatal mistake… for him.

The knife wound in Solo’s side would need some TLC once he returned to Headquarters, and the thought occurred to him that once again his sleep would be impaired by an encounter with THRUSH. And then another grim recollection, this meeting had been set up by Angelique.  He hoped that she hadn’t intended to get him killed, but had no doubt that Illya would immediately jump to that conclusion.

_One blonde who couldn’t be trusted entirely, and another who could never trust.  How did he end up in the middle between those two?_

Okay, forget that.  He had a body on the floor that would need its own type of care.  Napoleon stood back once more and viewed the crummy room in which a man had relinquished his life.  Faded and chipping paint on the walls betrayed decades of what now seemed a futile attempt to project something like stewardship on the part of the owners.  The small window was flanked by sagging fabric that had once been identified as draperies, although now they were simply a sad facsimile; threadbare in places and several shades lighter than when they were first hung.

The carpet was a dichotomy of sorts to the entire scene, a cruel statement, thought Napoleon.  A sudden surge of anger came over the UNCLE agent, unbidden and surprising even to the even tempered Solo.  He had killed a man who stupidly thought it wise or profitable (who would ever know for certain?), to double-cross the Command that offered him asylum.  Waverly himself had made the overture to Bernard Collins, offering a way out of THRUSH at a time when his life was in danger from factions within the Hierarchy and beyond. 

Napoleon was assigned the mission of retrieval, and was close to walking him out of the door when Collins pulled out a knife and threatened to end not only his life by Solo’s as well.  The irony of Collin’s meeting having been orchestrated by Angelique was not lost on Napoleon.  She waivered constantly between being his lover and a nemesis worthy of the title, something the Russian never let him ignore or forget.

“Illya, my friend, you may end up being right about all of it.”  At the sound of his own voice Napoleon straightened his tie and opened his communicator.  Mr. Waverly would not be pleased.

“Open Channel D… Solo here.“

“Yes Mr. Solo.  Do you have Mr. Collins with you?”  The question sparked another grimace from the wounded agent.

“Ah… well, yes … in a manner of speaking.” The void was widening.

“And exactly what manner is it of which you speak, Mr. Solo?”  Napoleon looked around the room again, taking in the small details he had been studying until finally, ultimately, his eyes landed on the body of Bernard Collins.  The carpet beneath him was a swirling mass of faded flowers that succeeded only in making the man’s death seem more macabre, more untenable.

“He … Mr. Collins is dead, sir.  He …’ The wound inflicted by the now deceased Mr. Collins was perhaps more invasive than Napoleon had first thought, in spite of his bravado.  He felt a little lightheaded as he attempted to form his reply to the voice inside his faux pen.

“He attacked me, sir, with a knife… and …’’  Waverly sensed his agent’s condition immediately, and began to summon medical assistance for him, determined to not lose his top agent in this manner.

“Help is on the way to your location Mr. Solo.  Stay where you are.  Where is Mr. Collins?”

Napoleon’s eyes traveled yet again around the room, a dizzying trip for someone losing blood and, very soon he feared, consciousness.  This room had been the culprit, perhaps, and Bernard Collins merely a victim himself.

“Sir? Oh, Mr. Collins is sleeping now, _on a bed of roses_.” 

Waverly understood the disorienting nature of traumatic injuries, but it would take some explaining for him to decipher the meaning of Solo’s cryptic message concerning the unfortunate Mr. Collins.

When the medical team arrived, they were accompanied by Illya Kuryakin; the other blond, the one least likely to put Solo in the line of danger or venomous spiders.  Napoleon was out cold on the rose patterned rug, a bloom of red staining his normally pristine white shirt.  Illya checked his pulse before allowing the medics to begin their work.  Napoleon had lost some blood but he would live.  The same could not be said for Bernard Collins, who was quite dead.

“I see Mr. Solo’s aim was not hampered by his injury.”  Illya was not surprised that his partner was able to make his shot in spite of being wounded.  The bigger question was why Collins had attacked Napoleon.  In the Russian’s mind it was an easy explanation to assume Angelique had sent them a red herring, although he privately did not actually believe she wanted Napoleon dead.  More likely that Collins was a plant that not even the platinum vixen had known about.

It didn’t take long for the fallen agent to regain consciousness.

 “Hey … what’s …?

“Hello Napoleon.  I see you’ve managed to eliminate another bird.  What did you do to make him want to kill you?”  Illya’s look conveyed concern even if his conversation lacked it.

“Yeah, I noticed that… Ouch! I’m fine…’  Illya chuckled at that.  Napoleon seemed to have pinched his line.

“Well, I am fine.  Just a nick, really.  What were you saying about Collins?”

“I was wondering what exactly happened here.”

Napoleon took a deep breath, letting his brain catch up with everything as he recalled the past two hours.

“I got here, did the knock on the door … he opened it and I came in… We started to talk about his decision to leave THRUSH, and the longer we talked the more agitated he became.  Without warning he pulled out a knife and rushed me.  I couldn’t dodge it, the guy was really fast, and then …’  Napoleon looked at Illya, a strange expression on his face as he recalled the moment when I happened.

“I was just backing away from that knife when Collins came at me again.  I had no choice but … I defended myself.  I have no idea what caused him to attack me like that, but he was like someone out of his mind.”  Napoleon had a withered expression on his face, a little like the room itself. 

“You need to get back to Headquarters.  I’ll finish up here.’  Illya knew what his partner was thinking, and he felt a surge of sympathy that grated against his better judgment.

“I do not think she knew, Napoleon.  I may not approve of your liaisons with Angelique, but I doubt very much that she was aware of Collin’s state of mind … or, whatever it was that prompted this.” The blond waved his hand toward the body on the rose patterned rug, fully aware that he was almost endorsing the enemy.  He did it for his friend, although Illya would continue to watch the man’s back when that woman was present.

“Thank you, Illya.  I … thanks.”  The medics indicated they were ready to leave, suggesting that Mr. Solo accompany them back to Medical.

“Thanks guys, but I think I’ll just hang around here and ride back with Mr. Kuryakin.  I’m fine, really … peachy. You did your job, I’ll handle Mr. Wavelry .. er… well, take responsibility.”

The clean-up crew were next to arrive, at which time Illya and Napoleon took their leave and headed back to try and figure out a way to write a report on the bizarre incident.  Napoleon wanted to contact Angelique, to try and figure out what had gone wrong.  Perhaps she would know something about Collins, have some idea about his state of mind.

“Illya, do you think …?”

“No.  I try not to.”

“What?  Wait, no… that’s not… sigh…”

“Napoleon, what goes on between you and Angelique is … entirely yours.  I do not approve, but I do not believe that she was responsible for this.  It is more likely that she was being set up, and possibly someone else concocted this scheme to get Collins in the room with you and … Perhaps he was programmed.  We know it can be done.”  That caused a momentary pause in the conversation.

“So, he was going to die regardless?  Either I would kill him, or he would kill me and then what? Suicide?”  Illya nodded, his concentration divided between his partner’s conundrum and the Manhattan traffic.

“Yes, probably.  And Angelique would be held responsible by all parties, although it would fare better for her among THRUSH than UNCLE.  Chances are I would …”  The Russian stopped, not willing to go farther with that train of thought.  Napoleon understood and let it drop.

“So, now what?  If Collins was a plant and Angelique is also a victim, I wonder what we can expect next.  Is this any way to live, tovarisch?  Always looking for the next assassin beneath every rock, behind every door?  What kind of spotlight am I in that they send crazy people to kill me, program my partner to … sorry.’  Napoleon hadn’t intended to bring it up again.

“But you know what I mean, right?  Is this any way to go through life, always with one eye on the road ahead and another trying to see behind me?” 

Illya was suddenly weary.  Too much vodka to kill the pain and the memories, too little human affection to ward off the loneliness.  Napoleon was right, but what difference did it make to be right?

“I cannot believe I am saying this, my friend, but you probably need a woman tonight.  Chyort!  I probably need a woman tonight. Maybe some jazz and vodka to sooth our melancholy, what do you say?”

Napoleon’s side was hurting, but his heart was hurting even more.  He’d check in with Medical, write a summary for Waverly and then …

“Make it jazz and whiskey.”

 


End file.
